


Map of the Stars

by plasticdaisy



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, College, Fluff, Humanstuck, M/M, Meet-Cute, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-23 22:49:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21327970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plasticdaisy/pseuds/plasticdaisy
Summary: Unable to understand the material, Dave struggles to pay attention in class - but that's fine, because he can get to know the cute guy doodling next to him ... by scribbling all over his notes.For my boyfriend.
Relationships: Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas
Comments: 1
Kudos: 85





	Map of the Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KittyMotor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyMotor/gifts).

I look down at my notes. The page is taken up three-quarters of the way by a mess of arrows and bullet-points – which would lend to the fact I’ve learned practically nothing so far. The definitions I have are at best vague, and at worst entirely incorrect. I tighten my hand around my pen.

The professor has been lecturing for about an hour, now, and he paces in front of the PowerPoint presentation projected on the wall with an eccentric vigor. He has an accent that’s unfamiliar to me, putting even more strain on the fact I have no idea what he’s been talking about this entire time.

The professor had dutifully reminded us that we had all apparently learned this material in high school, so he would be ‘vhizzing vight through it’. My hopes for the class immediately sunk; I mentally cycled back to the_ fantastic_ homeschooling I’d received from my brother, which definitely did not include the makeup of the cell. But, to be fair, unless there was going to be a class on self-defense, my hopes for college had been weak to begin with. 

My sister was the one who had suggested it – to get an associate’s degree in something I’m passionate about, to ‘let go of my past’, as it were – but in order to be successful in photography or music, I needed to get through my general education courses without slipping through the cracks. And, of course, Biology was one of them.

I tilt my head to the side, leaning back in my chair. The professor had changed slides while I was lost in thought, and though the screen has a somewhat simple image of a cell plastered on it, he seems to have thrown himself into a tangent about ‘movecular cimpisition’, and I glance around to see a number of the students simply nodding along – if they’re as lost as I am, they aren’t letting on.

Someone raises their hand, making an intelligent and confusing comment.

“Vonderful, vonderful,” the professor replies, waving a shaky hand.

God damnit.

I put down my pen, biting my lip and quietly drumming my fingers on the table. I can feel a tremor on the surface of the imitation-wood as I dance across it with my right hand, and I glance to my side. The guy next to me is shaking his leg.

I glance over at his paper, hoping to find camaraderie in not understanding – but, in fact, he seems to have the exact opposite of my problem. His notes are written neatly in gelly-roll pens, and concise as they come. I see the words the professor was saying marked down in clear, boxy letters. He appears to have already given up on the notes, though it seems that it’s only because he actually _understands _what’s going on to the point where it’s meaningless review. He’s holding a mechanical pencil with little black cats on it, and in the corner of his page, he’s drawing a plant. It’s a kind that looks like a little tree, with the flowers cascading downwards. He marks it down with precision that suggests that he probably even knows the name of it – smart bastard.

I pick my pen up off the table, my eyes flitting between my paper and his. When he picks up his pencil to fix the tip, which broke off in his calculated coloring of one of the flowers, I reach over onto his paper and scribble a message:

“nice flower.”

My chicken-scratch and red pen sticking out like a nasty stain on his note-page. He makes a frustrated sound, batting my hand away.

I twirl my pen in my hand as he rubs at the page a little, letting out an exasperated huff of a breath. There’s a pause where I believe our interaction ends – a bored idiot scribbling on someone else’s paper, someone he’d forget when he came back to class next week and sat somewhere else.

But, like the way a wave can crash when you don’t even realize it’s building, he reaches over, and on the bottom of my page in that neat handwriting of his, he writes:

“THANKS.”

I look up from my page, and his eyes dart up from the table. He’s cute. His hair is a fluffy mop on the top of his head, and his eyes are a warm brown – that honey-hot-chocolate color that feels so familiar, but you can’t put your finger on where you’ve seen something so charming before.

He’s got a nose ring – a septum – and two lip piercings on his bottom lip. They twitch when he shoots me a smile, his brow furrowed critically. He’s not just cute, he’s hot. His shirt has a skull on it, drawn out in excruciating detail. It reminds me of his flower.

I look back down at my paper, scribbling down a messy reply.

“what is it called?”

He pauses, as if trying to understand what I wrote down – and I don’t blame him, because my handwriting is atrocious at best. He writes _SNAPDRAGONS_ and follows up by informing me underneath that they are one of his favorites. I make a mental note of it as he picks up one of his pens and starts to carefully color in each petal like a separate sunset, breaking against its own sky on his lined-paper notepad.

We spend the rest of the class idly chatting through our notes, and it evolves into me doodling a stem, and him turning it into a flower with his pencil. He hands me some of his gelly-roll pens, and I color them in messy and ugly, but he just laughs and writes they’re _UGLY BUT CUTE_, and _NICE TRY_. I make one of them into a dick and he draws a long, black line on my hand in retaliation.

Whenever I look up at him, he smiles, and it’s the kind you can see in the corners of his eyes when he looks at you. I don’t believe in love at first sight, but god does he put a couple butterflies in my chest.

It’s another hour before the professor dismisses my class, and the class begins to fold up their notebooks and throw them into their bags. Quiet chatter erupts as the professor turns off the projector and moves to collect his things.

“Hey,” I say to the guy who sat next to me, Mr. Brown Eyes and Flower Drawings, and he rolls his eyes.

“Hey,” he replies, mirroring me, “I’m Karkat.”

His lips twitch into a little smile. His voice is nice.

“Dave,” I give a weak salute with two fingers, before adding with a smirk, “nice to meet you, Karkles.”

He rolls his eyes at that. I don’t know how he does it, but it’s a handsome look on him – in fact, I can’t imagine him being unattractive. He seems to have the sort of features that melt so perfectly into any expression that it kills his poker faces and turns his face into a canvas for his feelings to turn into water lilies, suns rising, and crashing waves.

_If he was frowning, would he still be so handsome?_ I wonder to myself, but quickly recall that Turners’ are just as beautiful as Monet’s.

He looks down at my notebook as I pick it up and pulls it from my hands.

“What the fuck is this?” he says with a stifled laugh of disbelief, “is your handwriting just bad, or did you really spell eukaryotic like _that_? How many i’s are in there?”

I feel myself bristle with a little embarrassment.

“This isn’t exactly my forte.”

“Biology?”

“… School.”

He bites his lip, looking a little closer and squinting, before snapping the book shut and handing it back to me.

“Do you want any help?” he offers after a slight pause. I search his expression for sarcasm, but his face – painted in Japanese footbridges and impressionist sunrises – carries a look of genuine care and concern.

His brow is furrowed. His eyes are warm.

“You’d actually tutor me in this?” I ask, putting my notebook back down onto the table.

“Yeah – I have to take this class because my credits didn’t transfer, actually,” he shrugs, “I already know all this stuff. I don’t mind.”

Despite the definitively playful insults he’s thrown in my direction, the offer is painted with a tone that speaks to consideration and kindness. He’s witty _and_ nice, and I swallow the way my heart does a flip.

“Thanks, man,” I reply in a breath, “like, really.”

“No worries,” he throws his bag over his shoulder and moves up next to me, giving me a little playful shove and smile as he moves past, “as long as you aren’t as much of a douche as you look.”

“No promises.”

He shakes his head as he leaves the room, and I watch how his mussed, curly hair bounces over the collar of his sweater as he turns the corner.

I look down at my notebook as I shove in my earbuds – there’s a little piece of paper sitting on top of the red cover. I pick it up, unfolding it. Karkat’s drawing of the snapdragons frames the top of the paper, laced with sparkles and neon pinks, oranges, and yellows from his pens. Underneath, scrawled quickly and neatly:

DON’T THINK I FORGOT TO GIVE YOU MY NUMBER - I’M NOT THAT MUCH OF AN ASSHOLE. SEE YOU LATER, DAVE.

Underneath, circled in a glittery, bright red is a phone number. I fold up the paper again, feeling a grin betray my face. I close my eyes for a minute, before shoving the paper into my pocket.

I turn up my music, and my head fills with portraits of the sea, hot chocolate, and the warm smile of a boy I just met. I can’t help but suddenly think that maybe this class won’t be so bad after all.

_Vonderful_.

**Author's Note:**

> named after the song by slaughter beach, dog


End file.
